Work Text:
Listen, Abbacchio was trying okay.
He’d been getting better, not quite reaching sober but he’d only gotten unmistakably blackout drunk twice in the year and a half it’s been since he met Bruno. Twice.
It’s just that today was the fucking anniversary of the shooting, and this time two years ago he’d been crying on the ground, screaming into his radio and begging any god that may have existed to please, please don’t punish him for my mistakes. Five hours later, in the dredging aftermath of pain and shock, he’d handed his badge in and walked straight to the first bar he could find. He’d metaphorically stayed there for months.
And then, like a message from an angry god, Bruno Buccellati waltzes into his raining life with a sleek umbrella and helps drag him out from the gutter of his own making. Gives him a second chance to make a difference.
The first anniversary wasn’t that bad, Bucciarati had him working his ass off and he’d been distracted from pretty much everything. It wasn’t until a full week later that Abbacchio finally saw the date. He only had a small breakdown at the breakfast table before shutting up, drinking his bad coffee and getting on with it.
If he’d drank himself to sleep crying that night it was between him and God (and Buccellati who had to pry him out of bed and into the shower the next morning).
The point is, Abbacchio was trying really hard and - in his opinion - doing really well.
Considering everything.
Today was just never going to go well.
It had started the night before, really. All of Buccellati’s gang were sitting at the dinner table, eating a standard Tuesday dinner with standard Tuesday conversation and standard fucking Tuesday energy. So really, he was having a blast listening to the younger kids play fight and squabble, not participating.
Then he glanced over at the calendar hanging on the wall by the doorway, and saw what tomorrow’s date would be.
Static filled his ears, his stomach turned leaden and cold, and the small glass of white wine on the table loomed over him looking like it wasn’t nearly enough.
He picked it up, noticing with a distant thought that his hands were shaking a bit, and downed the whole thing in one gulp.
He’d got up then, on autopilot, pushing away his half-eaten plate and rushing to shoulder his way out of the room. He could distantly hear Bruno calling his name behind him.
A few more shaky steps took him to the front door. He remembers he shrugged on his coat and shoes with an unbridled urgency to escape.
The next thing he knew he was standing outside a nearby store with two shopping bags in one hand full of cheap but strong alcohol. In his other hand was a shitty vodka mix already popped open and being brought to his lips.
He walked home best he could, drinking from whatever bottles he grabbed from the bag blind and throwing away the empty ones as he went (in bins, he wasn’t a monster). By the time he got home one of the bags was empty in his pocket and the other was just starting to feel a bit lighter.
He didn’t know how long he’d been gone. It was probably already that cursed date, but he didn’t want to know. God, let him cling to the day before for just a few more hours.
Maybe if he kept drinking he could just sleep through that day, restart the day after and pretend nothing was wrong.
He clumsily walked into the house, trying the best he could to get his shoes and coat off in silence. He failed of course as he was definitely drunk by now. Still though, at least trying to be quiet was better than barging in like an asshole and waking the kids and-
Oh god Bruno was going to be so mad.
He stumbled up the steps, the bag clinking like a foghorn behind him with a broadcast of all his mistakes. He walks past the things on the shelves; Trish’s favourite hairbrush, the weird felt worm pet Narancia bought to annoy Mista with, Fugo’s most recent crochet creation (kid needed a relaxing hobby).
There’s pictures too, hung on the wall in cheap wood frames, like that one where Fugo and Narancia dressed up all fancy cause they begged Bruno to take them to a “prom”, or the candid one from Giorno’s birthday where the kid was surprised enough at the cake and presents that he cracked a big, honest smile.
Abbacchio was drunk, so he couldn’t help the warbling smile that spread over his wet face looking at the evidence of his… his family.
Eventually he stumbled into his own room. The bed was messy and his clothes from yesterday- or the day before- were strewn all over the floor. The curtains were uneven, one dragged lazily to the side whilst the other lay fully drawn. The room itself was a little cold, but not cold enough to make him stumble downstairs once again to grab an extra blanket.
He deserved to be a little cold. He’s probably nowhere near as cold as the ground his partner lay in-
Fuck. No, stop please-
He wrenched the top off another bottle, taking big gulps of the Gin, and why the fuck does anyone enjoy this stuff it’s appalling and disgusting-
-he’s the disgusting one here, breaking all his promises-
The gin bottle empties and he reaches for a new bottle
-and reaches for a new bottle
-and reaches for a new bottle-
-and reaches for a new bottle-
-a n d r e a c h e s f o r a n e w b o t t l e-
-a n d r e a c h e s f o r a n e w-
And then he’s waking up to Bucciarati kneeling down in front of him, his face twisted and his blue eyes wet.
“-bbachio thank god, you weren’t responding, I was wor-“
His head is swirling. Why does his face feel wet? What happened?
His vision blurs and his eyes feel heavy, but as he tries to just have a little nap he’s jostled upright by- Bruno?- his capo’s steady hands.
What is all that noise?
His eyes open, looking down at himself and-
Oh, yeah, that’s definitely vomit. That explains the wet feeling. Okay.
He looks around, spots all the empty bottles and the same crappy bed and half drawn curtains as before. And then he realises not only is Bruno kneeling in front of him, his arms grasping his shoulders quietly, but they’re not Alone.
Pannacotta stands by the door, their extensive home med kit in his hand and he’s talking to a head of hair that’s definitely Narancia through the partially open door.
Besides Bucciarati kneels Giorno, his hand faintly shimmering gold like he’s ready to be of need, but placating himself by gazing downwards respectfully at Aerosmith who sits in his lap.
Oh Jesus. Abbacchio pulls away from Bucciarati’s hold, slouching to the side and reaching for a shirt he sees crumpled on the ground. He grabs it, jerkily bringing it up and wiping his face and chest with the dirty clothing. He doesn’t want to look at the ground behind him, because looking at vomit is almost as bad as having to clean it up.
“What are they doing in here?” He croaks out, pushing himself into a shaky upright position.
He sees Giorno look up briefly before lowering his gaze back down to the Stand Plane in his grasp, but Fugo turns to look at him straight on, and Narancia’s head fully pokes through the door, his smile wide but stiff and clearly fake.
Bucciarati returns his hands to Abbacchio’s upper arms, holding him steady and looking him in the eye. “You ran out the house, so we tried to find you, and by the time we came home you were here, unconscious. Dammnit, Leone you were barely breathing and I couldnt get you to wake up and you were drowning in your own fucking vomit-” He cuts himself off, breathing deeply. His hands clench in the material of Abbacchio’s sleeves. “Giorno’s here in case your lungs or liver failed, Narancia is monitoring your breathing and Fugo’s been helping me try to rouse you.”
“Oh.” Jesus, OH? That’s all he can say. He’s pathetic. Abbacchio grimaces, looking away and lifting a hand to push his hair back out of his face. His throat hurts, almost as much as his head, and his mouth is so dry. Abbacchio grits his teeth and closes his eyes. “Can- Can someone get me some water-”
A bottle is thrown through the doorway by Narancia, deftly caught in Bucciarati’s hand and opened in precise movements. In contrast, Abbaccio’s hand is shaky as he reaches for the bottle, and he downs half of it before he presses the cold surface to his forehead. He needs a shower.
Bucciarati takes the bottle gently, screwing on the lid and placing it on the floor next to where the two were sitting. His face is still doing that scrunched up thing, the one Leone doesn’t like because it makes him look serious and sad, and he turns to the three younger boys.
“Everything should be okay from here, I’ll handle the rest. You all go get some sleep.” And like that the three nod, Narancia sliding back out the door as Aerosmith disappears, and Fugo following shortly after him.
Giorno pauses on his way to the door and turns slightly. “I am glad you’re alright, Leone.” His words are soft, and he wrings his hands a tiny bit before gliding out the door in his usual determined strides.
Abbacchio huffs, turning back to Bucciarati’s sad gaze. “Thank you.” He starts, slumping down a little where he sits. “They’re good kids, I'm sorry i- I’m just sorry.”
Bucciarati lowers his head, intent on keeping eye contact between the two. “Why, Leone? You’ve been doing so well and you were so happy yesterday until dinner. Did something happen? Did one of the team say something?” He pauses, face scrunching even more. “Is it my fault?”
“No.” Abbacchio blurts, wincing. “No, god no Bucciarati it’s not your fault. Nobody said anything… Its just this fucking day. It’s today, Bruno.” Okay maybe he’s still a little drunk.
Bucciarati’s face just goes blank, eyes watery and uncertain, and Abbacchio hates it.
Hates himself and his body, his ability to act without thinking despite the hurt he causes. Hates that he was a failure as a cop and a failure as a friend and he’ll always be Leone Abbacchio- The Lion Lamb of Fucking Up.
“It was… You know why I stopped being a cop? The shooting?” Abbacchio grits out, but Bucciarati just nods patiently. “It was today. All my fuck-ups culminated on this day to get my partner killed. He died because I was too weak and slow to save him-”
“You know that isn’t true.” Bucciarati snaps, eyes still soft. “He died because of a scumbag who hurt innocent people just to get what he wanted.”
“But if I hadn’t taken those fucking bribes and just done my job-”
“He would have probably got out on bail the next day and still been at the scene to commit the crime he did, but this time he would have shot you on sight and maybe your partner too- just for good measure.”
Abbacchio bites back a sob, and then recoils when his hand touches something cold and he realises he was reaching for the closest liquor bottle without realising it. He recoils, dropping the bottle with a thud against his carpet floor and clutching his hand into Bucciarati’s sleeve instead.
“I don’t want to be like this anymore.” Abbacchio breathes out, a confession low enough only the two can hear. And just because he wasn’t drunk and disgusting enough, that's when the damn breaks and Leone starts to cry, his chest lurching in ugly, heaving, dry sobs.
Bucciarati pulls him in for a hug, bringing Leone's forehead to rest on his shoulder as he rocks the two side to side a little. He’s making quiet humming noises, and his hand rubs small circles between Abbacchio’s shoulder blades. He listens, breath quieting, as Bucciarati’s humming becomes a soft tune, similar to something he thinks he heard on the radio the other day when the two of them and Trish had been in the kitchen.
Bucciarati had been teaching Trish how to cook that day. A pasta dish, something with mushrooms, though Abbacchio hadn’t been listening much. He’d sat in the warm sun, his headphones on low volume and a book in his hands as he let the quiet mumble of the two lull over him like a wave.
He wants that. The happy times with the people he trusts, sober and content with the events around him. He knows his job is dangerous, that he could die any day, why-
Why speed up his enemy’s job and waste the time he could be spending like that day in the kitchen?
Abbacchio pulls away, steady and determined despite his raging headache and the fact he probably reeks of vomit and stale alcohol. Bucciarati lets him go, his face open and relaxed for now.
“I will be better,” Abbacchio states, his throat catching at the way Bucciarati’s eyes catch fire, “I will be better than this, and I’ll be the best damn Soldato you’ve ever had. I’ll be a better friend, and I’ll look out for those fucking kids like my life depends on it.”
And then Bucciarati smiles. His smile is soft and warm and serious. “Leone,” he starts, “You’re already the best thing me and those ‘fucking kids’ could ask for, so please know that we’ll be looking out for you too.”
This definitely wouldn't fix everything, it wouldn't cure his quite clear alcohol dependency nor rid him of the pain he feels over the loss of his old friend.
It wouldn’t make the craving to drink himself into obscurity disappear.
It wouldn’t help clean his room up or help him into the shower- Bucciarati had to do that.
(He also made him a cup of tea before bed, and so when Abbacchio finally slept, Bucciarati left him with a cleaner room, a fresh bottle of water and some painkillers.)
In that moment, that brief moment of looking into his Capo -no- his friend’s eyes...
Leone Abbacchio didn’t feel like he’d ever been more at peace.